Bradley Said It's Haunted
by sbgrrl
Summary: Pre-series. Gen. Warning: Foul language and squicky imagery. Summary: Left alone while their father is off on a hunt and an annual drown-your-sorrows meeting with Jack Daniels , Dean and Sam manage to get themselves in a spot of trouble on Halloween.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is meant to be finished before the end of the day (11:59.59), but in case it isn't, I wanted to offer something up for Halloween. No deep meanings here - just a good ol' haunt. My first real attempt at pre-series, so be kind. Thanks to LdyAnne for reading through this and encouraging me like whoa. All remaining typos are 100% my fault. _

**Bradley Said It's Haunted **

_October 31, 1995_

This was stupid. Dean had had the whole night planned, and nothing on the agenda involved skulking around in dust and cobwebs. He was supposed to go to a lame party, but only because Tracey Fielding was going to be there. It wouldn't have taken much to convince her to leave with him so they could play their own party games. If things had gone like they were supposed to, he would be tricking, treating and bobbing for Tracey's apples right about now. Oh, how he'd set his sights on those beautiful apples. At the start of the day, he was certain Tracey was exactly what he'd be doing all night long.

Instead, Dean stood on the front porch of the run-down Peabody house on the outskirts of town, pockets filled with rock salt, iron poker in hand and with his jaw clenched unhappily. He couldn't say he didn't know why he was there, and that it wasn't his own fault. A pathetic tilt of the head and a begging look from Sam had canceled his much-anticipated conquest in an embarrassingly quick amount of time. It was a sad, sorry state of affairs that he had been swayed so easily from such a guaranteed score.

The house was tucked away from the road, hidden behind overgrown grass, bushes and trees. There was no real need for stealth. Sam said the kids weren't going to show up for a couple more hours, and by then the Winchesters would be gone, their business (or lack of) done. Dean figured this might be a Halloween hotspot for all kinds of idiots, but they hadn't been in Fairmont long enough for him to have heard anything. Besides he generally spent less time listening and more time sleeping through the school hours, so chances were if there were something to hear he wouldn't have heard it.

Sammy had.

He told himself that Sam had suckered him so easily because this _was_ all local legend and no reality. Dad would have known if there was a bona fide haunted house in town, and he never would have left on his week-long anniversary bender without telling Dean about it. He never would have left town, period. No, this was probably a bunch of kids trying to freak Sam out, thinking him an easy mark as the new kid in school. In some ways, Dean thought his little brother was naïve. But in others, he knew Sam wasn't. Whatever. They were there now and he wanted to make this quick so he'd have time to salvage at least the most vital parts of his original plan. With any luck, those punk kids would be around somewhere to watch their handiwork; Dean would like a word with them. Nobody messed with his brother's head except him.

Still, Dean thought, with the way Sammy was starting to mope and whine about the training Dad put them through and the hunting lately, it meant something for him to initiate a hunt. Prank or no prank, Sam had shown interest. Dean might think more often than not lately that his brother was an alien hatched out of a pod, but he knew the kid deep down. Hell, he knew the kid better than he knew himself. Even if this was a bunch of bullshit and he thought it was stupid, he'd seen the crushed look on Sam's face one too many times when Dad didn't listen to one of his boring stories, and he didn't want to be the cause of that.

It wasn't surprising that he was about to B&E this craphole of a house on Sam's say-so.

Dean decided he'd keep an eye out for a patrol car or two, in case the local cops might anticipate trouble out here. He wasn't worried. Dad hadn't let him hunt alone yet, but this wasn't a hunt. This was a cakewalk, a bunch of pipsqueaks in Sammy's class coming out to scare themselves spitless. That was all. The more he repeated to himself that this house wasn't haunted, the more he wondered why he was repeating it to himself. He nudged the door open, rolling his eyes at the clichéd sound of the hinges creaking.

"Give me a break," he muttered.

He made his way through the entry hall, carefully stepping over holes in the floorboards, put there by age and vandals both. This was the perfect fake haunted house, he thought, there always seemed to be one of them in small towns like Fairmont. That might be why he hadn't heard anything about this place. He was so used to the ghost stories he no longer automatically believed them without more tangible signs of supernatural involvement. Well, that, and he wasn't a twelve-year-old sucker like Sammy.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Dean chanted to the nonexistent haunt.

He thought five minutes inside would be enough to prove a good faith effort to Sam. He sauntered deeper into the house, his footsteps echoing hollowly. In the living room, piles of broken furniture circled the edges, some of it in obviously staged pyramids. Old magazines, license plates and books littered the floor. A McDonald's wrapper here, a pile of dried up shit, animal and (oh _gross_) human, there. It didn't take a genius to realize the house was a sleep spot for transients, and that stories and rumors had started from there.

What the house didn't have were any cold spots. There was no electricity, so there wasn't going to be any flickering lights. The more he thought about it, the less it made sense to him that he was there at all. It also reminded Dean that for all his concern about Sammy being a sucker, he was really the gigantic chump. This wasn't news, but with the thought of Tracey Fielding's apples fresh in his mind, it was more annoying than usual. That was it. Dean determined his five minutes were up, whether they were or weren't.

Skipping a halfhearted search of the upstairs, Dean headed straight for the back of the house to meet up with Sammy. Dad would have killed him for letting his little brother out of his sight, but with a heavy suspicion there was nothing doing at the Peabody estate, Dean's executive decision was that the kid could pull his own weight. He might be a sucker, but he was no fool. Sam had started this, he could see it through to the end. Besides that, nothing made Sam madder than feeling like he was being left out, even when most of the time Dean thought he _should_ be left out. It was far too late to hope for anything like a normal, monster-free life for Sammy.

He wandered into the kitchen, twirling the iron poker like a baton. The cabinets were mostly just piles of wood, doors hanging on precariously by one hinge or off. The sink was rusted out, one of the faucets broken completely off. An old Formica-topped table lay on its side, legs torn off a long time ago. Sam wasn't anywhere in sight, though the back door was wide open. Sam should have finished in the kitchen quickly. They should have run into each other deeper into the house.

Dean tensed the muscles of his shoulders, stopping the poker mid-twirl and holding it at the ready. Standing stock still, he listened for any sign of his brother, for anything. All he could hear was the rustle of dead leaves on the ground outside as a breeze picked up, a dull thud of something hitting rotting wood. Glancing out the door, he saw a rocking chair on the small cement porch, banging up against the side of the house, propelled by the ghost of a wind gust. Cliché. Still somehow unsettling.

"Sammy," he said, keeping his voice low and steady. "Sam?"

No answer. That feeling, deep in his gut, started up, the one that told him something wasn't right. The one that was hardwired into his need to protect Sam. Dean lifted the poker even higher into swinging position as he edged toward the door, ready for anything. His mind raced. If he'd been wrong, if he'd blown this off as a prank and it wasn't and Sam … Dean really needed to find his brother. He wished he'd brought the shotgun Dad had left with them. He suddenly thought maybe he was going to need it.

The only place Sam could be was outside. Dean pressed himself up against the doorframe, peering out. His angle was limited, there was too much he couldn't see. The backyard was filled with trees and junk, dark shapes with hard angles. Sam could be out there, or he could be miles away. If he went out there now, he might be walking into a trap. Better to go through the house, get a broader and better look from a different vantage point. He withdrew back into the kitchen.

Halfway through the room, he heard something skitter in the cupboard next to the sink. It was the only one with the door still on both hinges. As Dean looked on, the door bumped open and shut. It was probably a rat, maybe a squirrel. Dean had to look anyway, though his attention was primarily on thinking about all the ways Sam was _just fine_.

Expecting to find only a rodent or two, Dean nevertheless prepared to bludgeon something to death with the poker. He approached the cabinets, paused only a second and then threw open the door. From inside sprang long, dark worm-like shapes, and the room filled with rapid flashes of light. Shielding his face, he grimaced and ducked in alarm and confusion, swinging at his assailants blindly. After five seconds, everything returned to quiet except his heart, which pounded so fast he was sure he could hear the blood swishing in through his veins.

It took a moment before Dean gathered his wits enough to realize the attack had been … a cupboard full of snakes-in-a-can. The set-up was brilliant and masterfully executed with an elaborate collection of strings, rubber bands, duct tape, and a Polaroid camera. He found a note taped on the inside of the door with "Hi, Dean" scrawled on it in recognizable, tight lines. He snatched the developing photos from the countertop, cringing at the ridiculous expressions on his face.

"Sam," he called.

No answer, but he hadn't expected one this time. If Sam knew what was good for him, and he did, he'd be nowhere in sight for a minute. Dean's anger didn't last much beyond that. The longer he stood holding those photos of himself looking like an idiot, the more his irritation became admiration for Sam's devious plotting and planning. This was an intricate stunt, which was another sign Sam had momentarily gone off the preteen angstfest depressants. Dean had to enjoy it while it lasted; he had no doubt next week Sam would be his regular pain in the ass self. Or maybe sooner, once Dean got his revenge. He was thinking it might be time to break out the Nair.

"Where are you, you little bitch?" Part of the fun was carrying on with the ruse, building up Sam for his finesse. "You're gonna pay for this."

No giggle, no Sam bursting out of the woodwork to point and laugh and claim temporary victory. Dean furrowed his eyebrows, the pit in his stomach made a rapid return. What good was Sam's gag if his little brother hadn't planned out how to get his hands on the incriminating evidence? Sam wouldn't let him walk away with the snapshots, not in a million years; he was too crafty. Glancing down at the stupid pictures grasped tightly in his hand, Dean wanted to tear them to pieces, but not because they made him look like an idiot. The impulse was baser than that.

"Sam, this isn't funny. Get your ass in here right now," Dean shouted.

This time when no answer came, he knew for certain it was because something was wrong. A multitude of horrible scenarios ran through his head. Sam trapped. Sam bleeding. Sam dead. Dean felt sick at how much of a jerk he'd been just ten minutes ago, thinking himself a fool for pandering to Sam's emo needs. He swore if Sam showed up from behind a door or a corner with a grin on his face now, he was going to kill him, himself. He'd also be one hundred percent relieved. He let the photos fall to the floor.

He already knew Sam couldn't have gone deeper inside, so he returned to the back door. The wind had picked up, banging the rocking chair into the house at a faster tempo. It was a distraction he didn't need, and for some reason it made him angry. Dean kicked the chair over with a sideswipe of his left leg, never taking his eyes off the yard. His senses were on alert, but he still saw nothing out there. There was only the howling wind and a graveyard of old appliances, beer bottles, tires and the rusted-out carcass of a VW Beetle.

No trace of Sam. The pit in Dean's gut turned into full-blown panic. He couldn't afford to panic right now. He considered what his father would do, modeling his behavior on that ideal, except the part where John Winchester murdered him for getting Sammy lost at a freaking bogus haunted house.

Except maybe it wasn't bogus. Dean had to have overlooked something. He and Sam were the only ones out there, and he hadn't been so out of it he wouldn't have heard someone approach. He knew Sam wouldn't have gone silently, if he was actually gone. So, Sam had to be close. Circumnavigating the junk piles was slow going, but Dean knew slow and steady was important in retaining some level of calm. When he was through with looking in old refrigerators and washing machines, he moved back to the house to search every side before heading back in.

"Sam," he said again, just loud enough to be heard above the wind. Half of him clung to the hope that this was part of Sam's joke, as sick and unfunny as it was. It beat Sam being gone or worse. "Sammy."

To the left of the back door he saw the entrance to a cellar. At this point, it was the only lead Dean had, but when he got closer to the double doors he saw there was an ancient padlock with thick chains wrapped around the handles. Sam couldn't be down there. It was locked from the outside, he thought stupidly, so it was impossible. Dean reached for the lock and chains anyway, pulling his hand back when it contacted something wet and warm. It was too dark now for him to see much, but as he stared at his palm he knew what the substance was.

Blood. Warm, fresh _ohshitSamwhereareyou?_ blood.

&-&-&

Sam knew the Peabody house wasn't haunted. Contrary to what Dad and sometimes Dean thought, he wasn't a stupid little kid anymore. The second he'd heard Bradley Hoffstedler talking about the haunted house on the edge of town in a loud, haha-let's-screw-with-the-new-kid-voice Sam recognized instantly, he'd known two things: 1) Brad Hoffstedler was going to be the bane of his existence while they were in Fairmont, and 2) if he played it right, this might be the perfect opportunity to get Dean back for putting his hair in pink bow barrettes, slathering his face in Cover Girl makeup while he slept and then waking him with literally thirty seconds before he had to get out of the house to school. Dean hated when kids picked on him, and yet…

It hadn't taken Sam long to figure out what he was going to do, especially once Dean started bragging about some girl he was going to score with. As soon as Dean's brain was on sex, it was like everything smart about him got dumbed right out of him. He didn't think Dean even knew this about himself, and it was to Sam's great advantage. After Dad left, it was simple. Dean hardly noticed Sam sneaking off for an hour or two every day after school. It was a lot of work, Dean always told him he made things too complicated, but Sam knew it would be worth it in the end. Dean would never expect it, not in a million years. Not once Sam virtually begged him to help save some of his classmates.

Every time he felt a twinge of regret for the manipulation, Sam would remember the laughter as he'd run into school with barrettes in his hair and bright red lipstick drawn cartoonishly across his lips. Miraculously, he stopped feeling bad when he thought about that. As they walked up the drive to the Peabody house, he could barely keep the grin off his face. Dean stomped next to him angrily, mind _still_ on the sex he would now be missing. He'd be even madder once he realized the only ghosts on the Peabody property were the vapor trails twirling specter-like in the air with their every exhalation. God, Minnesota was cold.

"You go around back, Sammy," Dean said.

Sam's heart raced. Split up? Oh, crap, Dean knew something was up after all. Dean would never let him out of his sight otherwise. He nodded, though, pretending he was very excited for the opportunity to join this "hunt" on his own. Maybe it would be better this way. He could be back there, hiding in the kitchen so when Dean sprang the trap he would have a front row seat. The grin was back, threatening to give everything away.

"Okay," he said, lifting the small iron poker he was carrying. Had to sell the performance. The switchblade in his pocket felt heavy, significant. "You sure?"

"You know what to do, kid."

Sam took a deep breath, trying to look both scared and confident at the same time. It wasn't hard. It was how he felt most of the time.

"Be careful."

"Be careful, he says," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "You're the runt, runt. You be careful. Don't let the big bad ghosts get you."

Yeah, Dean definitely knew something was hinky. Sam felt a stab of disappointment. He'd been so sure he had managed it all without Dean having a clue. Oh, well. It didn't matter. They were here now, like he'd wanted. He was positive Dean might not believe there was a ghost in the house, but that he didn't know about the trick Sam had worked so hard to set up. This was going to be epic. Dean would _have_ to admit his little brother got him good.

Sam moved quietly. Even though he knew there was nothing supernatural to deal with – he had not once seen or heard anything out of the ordinary during his frequent visits – he wanted to keep on making it look good. He couldn't tromp around like an elephant. He'd give Dean enough time to poke around the second floor, then conveniently not show up anywhere downstairs so his brother would have come back to the kitchen. He rounded the corner of the house, the wind swirling around him. In the dark, he had to admit the back yard was creepy. But only normal creepy, not creepy, creepy.

He was trotting up the few steps to the back porch when it happened, and it went down so fast he didn't have time to think, let alone react. As Sam plummeted onto hard, sharp-edged cement, he did try to understand what was happening. Unfortunately, all he got was _"oh I'm falling"_ when his chin smacked into the top step, he bit his tongue and his head clunked against cement. Everything became bursts of fireworks and pain and then nothingness.

It didn't last longer than a second or two. Sam came to flat on his back and with the ground rippling beneath him. No, no, he was moving across it but that wasn't possible because he couldn't feel his arms and legs or anything, so he couldn't be moving. There were flashes of stars and deep near-black blue sky above, snatches seen through trees that still somehow had a few leaves hanging on branches. He blinked, trying to get his brain to work. The backs of his hands scratched along cool blades of grass and rough pebbles.

He was being dragged. How? Who? _Dean, help._ Sam couldn't do more than croak, but he knew he had to do something. This couldn't be but was happening. Shit, he needed to pull it together. His hands were blocks of ice, his fingers icicles, but he forced them to move. He fumbled in his pocket for the only defense he had against … he didn't know who or what or how. Couldn't think about it even if he could think. He had a sudden, strange urge to giggle.

"Dean," he said instead, not recognizing his own voice. He sounded like a baby. He didn't want to be a baby, but now he wanted to cry and not laugh. Tears were hot in his eyes and he was scared as hell.

"Shhhh," someone said, a voice both male and female, hard and soft. "Shhhh."

Shit. Crap. His fingers finally closed around the switchblade as his body stopped sliding along the bumpy ground. There was a low, jangling sound, the scrape of metal on metal and then metal on wood. Sam blinked again and again, but still all he could see was stars and branches. He lifted his head, squinting at the huge figure clutching at one of his ankles. Left ankle or right? Wrong. Oh, this was all wrong. The dark shape leaned in close and Sam did what came instinctively.

He flicked the switchblade and jabbed uncoordinatedly at the large mass of whatever or whoever. Sam didn't think he had the strength, but knew the second the blade sank into something firm and fleshy. He nearly lost it, his stomach coming to life with nausea. The thing he'd knifed didn't make a sound. He knew he'd hit it, though. It let go of his ankle as it hunched over, and Sam kicked and scuttled backward on the cold earth. As soon as he was far enough away from his attacker, he flipped over to his hands and knees, crawling. Wriggling when his legs refused to work like they should.

"Sammy … Sam?"

Dean. That was Dean's voice, faint and cautious. It came from so far away. Dean was close, though. Dean. Dean would help him. Sam was so, so sorry about the prank. He hoped Dean wasn't too mad to help, to save him. No ghosts there, but he was in a cold spot. Cold, wrong. Heart beating too fast. Mind racing but not working right. He opened his mouth to shout. All Sam knew for certain at this moment was that Dean would help him no matter what. It was all he could count on in his life, all he'd ever counted on. Another deep clank sounded nearby and an icy, wet heaviness across his mouth and nose. He smelled and tasted blood. His stomach clenched, and his vision tunneled.

"Shhhh, now," it said into his ear. It spoke English. Human? "Be a good boy, Sammy."

With the pungent smell of blood in his nose and the sharp taste of it on his tongue, Sam gagged once and then blacked out.

Waking this time was slow. Sam still smelled blood, but there was something else. Dankness, cool dirt. Wet rocks and mold. Straw and burlap. Something underlying it all, a smell of decay and rot. He opened his eyes a crack. All he could see was dark, and out of only one eye. He lay on his right side, face half buried in a stinky pillow. He turned onto his back, opening his eyes wider with the hope things would become clearer. Wherever he was now, there was no light. No matter how wide his eyes got, he couldn't see. He sat up, a faint rustling from beneath him sounding very loud in the silence.

Dean hadn't saved him. Sam knew it wasn't because he'd unleashed snakes-in-a-can on him, but at the same time he somehow wondered if that was why he was wherever he was and Dean wasn't with him. Unless Dean was with him and he was hurt or unconscious. He didn't know if that would be worse or better. Better. He shivered.

"Dean?" he said cautiously.

His brother, if he was there, didn't answer. Sam almost maybe kind of wanted this to be a really bad joke, for Dean to have figured it all out and gotten Sam before Sam got him. But Dean would never hurt him. Scare him, yes. Hurt, no. And Sam _was_ hurting. His head pounded, his tongue felt swollen and tender and there was something sticky on his chin. Blood, probably. He pressed the butt of his left hand against his temple, his arm shaking from the exertion. His whole body shook. It was cold.

Tonight was supposed to have been fun. This was supposed to have been a stupid attempt at revenge, a chance for him to prove to Dean that he was as good at giving as he was at receiving. Dean always expected lame pranks out of him. Sam stood up on shaky legs, shuffling away from the bed or cot he'd been on. Maybe he could find Dean, if Dean was there with him. Dean had to be there with him, because he didn't know if he could get away all by himself. There was something heavy on his left ankle. He heard a familiar, heavy clank. Forward motion was halted after two steps. He tried to crouch down, feeling for his ankle, but he got dizzy and collapsed back onto the lumpy cot.

He didn't have to touch it with his fingers it to know was chained up, and he didn't know where or why. Sam tugged at his shackle, out of frustration and not any real idea he could get loose. The rattle of thick chains against cement or rock was loud and ominous. The room fell into quiet again. All he could hear was his own breathing, at least for a moment. Then there came a soft, swooshing noise somewhere to his right. He widened his eyes again, still trying to see. There must be light coming from somewhere. His eyes adjusted somewhat. He could see shapes, nothing more than darker blobs among the dimness.

"He … hello," he said. "Dean, is that you?"

Almost immediately after he'd spoken, Sam knew it wasn't his brother. He felt a presence near him, but it didn't feel like _Dean_. No, he was all alone with something or someone else. Sam tried not to freak out. Freaking out was the last thing he should do right now, but, chained to the wall in a dark dungeon, freaking out was about all he could do. His blade was gone. He had no idea where the iron rod he'd had was. The only weapon he had was a rough pillow, and that wasn't even good for crying into. He was dead. He was so dead.

No, Sam wasn't going to sit around and wait to be dinner or worse for something. Dad would never let him live it down. He nearly laughed and cried again. Dad would never anything with him if he was dead. Sam got himself under control with a shaky breath. He wiggled on the cot, trying to figure out if it had springs somewhere. He didn't want to make any sudden movements, in case whatever had him could see in the dark. _It rubs the lotion on its skin._ Oh, crap, Sam was going on a diet the very _minute_ he got out of there. No more Twinkies just to spite his father and his stupid training. He wasn't going to be some sick freak's skin wallet. His hand shook, partly from cold but mostly from stark fear. He reached to the side cautiously, running his numb fingers along the coarse mattress and down until they contacted the frame.

It was made of wood. Oh, crap. No longer caring if he gave himself away, Sam shoved the thin mattress aside and felt under it. The entire frame was wood. The shackle on his ankle felt heavier than ever. He pulled at it. Panic returned, made his movements jerky and useless. He grunted as he heaved backward.

"Shhhh."

God, that was right next to him. Sam stopped moving. He almost stopped breathing. He wanted to move, but had nowhere to go. His knees were jammed against the bed and behind him, he could feel it behind him. So close. Too damned close. He lifted his right foot, willing it not to get tangled up in the chain, and kicked backwards. Like the knife earlier, it struck something. It did no good. A strong arm wrapped around his middle, another across his chest. Held him tight, almost like a hug.

"Shhhh," it said.

Sam wished it would stop saying that.

"Dean," Sam screamed as loud as he possibly could, because if Dean were anywhere near he would hear it. Sam really, really needed him to hear it. "Dean, I'm here!"

The almost-hug transformed into a tight grip on his arms. Sam was thrust forward, face pressed into the smelly mattress. He couldn't breathe. It was suffocating him. He didn't want to die. Sam fought wildly, but it was no use. His opponent was way too big and strong.

&-&-&

Dean's brain turned to a pool of sludge, useless and uncomprehending. All he could do was stare down at the black smears on his hand, as if he were a wet behind the ears rube who'd never seen blood before. He blinked a couple times, stupidly waiting for it to make sense. Finally, it did. It wasn't Sam's blood. It couldn't be. Dean refused to believe it. He crouched and quickly, frantically wiped his hand clean on the grass. He looked at it when he was done, checking. The blood was mostly gone, but he could still feel it, like a remnant thought whispering in the back of his mind that it really was Sam's.

"SAM," he yelled at the top of his lungs, knowing if Sam were anywhere nearby he would hear him and do whatever it took to reveal himself.

The only answer he got was skittering in a nearby tree, claws on bark, a squirrel terrified out of its tiny wits. He had to start the search somewhere. Though he knew it was impossible for Sam to be in the cellar, there was only one thing Dean could do. He didn't think much beyond his incredible need to take action, pounding at the padlock with the fire poker with every ounce of his strength. It wasn't enough. Other than a few gouges in the old, rotting wood of the door, the poker was useless. He dropped it, letting it slip through his fingers and thud to the ground. It clinked against something. Dean leaned, catching sight of a glint in the dim light. The second his fingers closed around it, he knew what it was. Sam's knife. Blood covered the blade, was already turning gummy on the handle.

"Damn it," Dean muttered. His stomach did a flip. "Sammy, you'd better have stuck the son of a bitch."

He slipped the blade into the ground, getting it as clean as he could. Like on his hands, traces of blood remained. It wasn't Sam's. It wasn't. Dean's brain had caught up completely by now. He knew had to get into the cellar. If there was even the slightest chance his brother was down there right now, then Dean couldn't let some rusty metal stop him. The gouges shone slightly brighter than the rest of the wood, looking like a large animal had attacked the door.

There was no way Dean could break the lock with his limited resources, but the wood was soft. With renewed resolve, he picked up the poker and began carving the door, focusing all of his energy on the wood around the hinges. The work wasn't as easy as he'd hoped, but his motivation kept him strong. Fear-driven adrenaline pumped through his veins, would keep him going as long as it took. He punctuated each strike with a guttural sound he knew was desperate. He didn't give a damn. Dad wasn't there to tell him to suck it up. He needed this outlet.

Dean couldn't believe all of ten minutes ago he'd been cursing Sam for pulling a stupid prank. He actually hoped there'd be some more motherfucking snakes-in-a-can down in the cellar when he got there, and Sam standing there holding a jar of stage blood, even though he knew there was nothing stage about the blood under his fingernails. And Sammy thought he wasn't a dreamer.

It seemed to take a long time, but it had probably only been a few minutes. He finally broke through the wood to the old hinges below. The hinges weren't all the way cleared, but Dean didn't care. Setting the poker aside again, he heaved the door – both doors – open, splinters flying all over the place, slivers puncturing his fingertips. Dank, stale air wafted up from the dark hole in the earth, but no sound. He bit back the impulse to cry out for his brother. He'd made too much of a racket to expect he could manage a surprise attack now. He wished again for the shotgun, though in his current jumpy state it might do more harm than good.

The steps were weak, bending under Dean's weight as he slowly descended with Sam's blade in his left hand and the poker in his right. If he hadn't needed caution in anticipation of what lay beneath, he'd have needed it to make sure he didn't fall ass over teakettle down the stairs. He brushed against the large stones lining the stairwell, for balance and steadiness. He wiped the images of Sam broken and bloody from his mind's eye, couldn't let himself get distracted by what-ifs and maybes. The closer he got to the bottom, the more he expected some type of offensive attack.

None came. No sound but his own controlled breaths and the stairs groaning slightly under his weight filled the night. His mind was capable of conjuring auditory figments, too, because Dean swore he could hear Sammy calling for his help. He listened for a second, to make sure it hadn't been real. Then he stepped from the last stair onto cement that sounded wet under his feet. The air was cold, and it was far too dark. From what little he could see, the walls were also made of stone. No obvious light source. No obvious sign of his brother. Dean lodged the poker under his left arm and fished out his penlight, illuminating the cellar.

He knew there was nothing and no one there, but it was still disheartening when the flashlight revealed that it was true. There were shelves covered in cobwebs, a few jars of something he couldn't name and didn't want to scattered on them. In the far corner there was a hole that looked deep and was filled with water.

"Shit," he said. "Gimme a sign, little brother."

Abandoning the basement, Dean took the rickety stairs two at a time back into the open. The yard was still quiet. If anything, it seemed quieter. The wind had died down. The VW Beetle looked like it was laughing at him. Screw that. He wasn't going to lose it now. The cellar had been too easy anyway. Someone or something had his brother; they wouldn't remain close. That … didn't make him feel better. In the time it had taken him to get into and search the small root cellar, Sam could have been taken who knew where. Dean didn't know what to do. He was tough. He was cool.

He wanted his daddy.

Unfortunately, Dean had no idea where Dad was either. Even if he did, he had no way to get in touch with him. He had to do this alone. He _could_ do this alone. The switchblade in his hand felt heavy. His fingers tightened. He scanned the ground around where he'd found the knife, looking for blood drops. There was some spatter. Not much. He was relieved and worried by that at the same time, depending on whose blood it was. He shone the flashlight across the grass until he found a trail, and followed it.

The blood disappeared after ten feet. So did the trampled grass, the scuffed dirt, and Dean's hope. None of this made sense. The house was _not_ haunted. He knew that in his gut, but whatever nabbed Sam was fast and it was silent and it had done it right from under his nose. That was worse than a friggin' ghost. He thought of those five minutes inside, him pretending he was playing along with the game. Five minutes could go by in a flash, or they could last forever. For Dean, they'd gone fast, but he didn't think the same was true for Sam.

No more wallowing. He had work to do. He needed better weapons. He needed a plan. As much as he wanted to tear through the grove surrounding the Peabody estate, Dean knew it would get him nowhere. Fifty feet to the north lay civilization. Fifty feet to the south lay nothing but empty fields. Either direction meant the same to him: a quick escape route.

"SAM," he shouted again, hoping with the wind gone maybe he'd hear a response.

He did. From around the front of the house came snorting, snuffling sounds and one half-swallowed giggle. Dean ran, convinced it was Sam and ready to throttle him. He was all for a good practical joke, but this had gotten out of hand. The cold dread in his gut would linger for a while. It was there like a block of ice even now, as anger and relief boiled through him.

"Sam, this wasn't fun –"

Dean slid to a halt, confused. There was no one up there. One of the overgrown bushes next to the front steps rustled, and not from the wind. He retracted the blade of the knife and slid it in his salt-filled pocket, pretending to look confused for a second. He put on a good show, walking around the yard like he didn't have the first clue Sam was in the bush. The kid was sloppy as hell. Dad would have his head if he knew this was the kind of stealth tactics Sam had in him. He climbed the steps to the porch slowly, still playing like he was unaware of his pain in the ass little brother.

The timing was perfect. Dean waited until he knew Sam had to be relaxing into careless self-satisfaction, then he launched himself over the shaky railing and into the hiding spot.

"You're going to pay for this, you asshole," he shouted. Further insults stuck in his throat, jammed up by confusion and disappointment.

The shocked, white face gawking back at him wasn't Sam's. The kid's features were hard to distinguish at first. He seemed to be all enormous eyes, flared nostrils and a mouth open so wide Dean could see how many fillings there were in it. The mouth flapped shut, then open again. The eyes remained like saucers.

"I didn't do anything," the kid said, voice high-pitched and trembling. He flung his arms up in front of his face. "I didn't – I swear I didn't do it. Please don't hurt me."

"I'm not going to hurt you. What the hell are you doing out here?" Dean said, then remembered it was Halloween and this place was like a magnet for stupid kids.

"Nothing. Nothing. I just wanted to scare him. I didn't do anything," the kid rambled.

Damn it. Dean wasn't a bully, but suddenly had to tamp down the urge to pop the boy one. He knew who this was – Brad Hoffstedler, as in, _"Dean, Bradley said it's haunted and I just know some kids are going to go get themselves hurt tonight."_ Well, at least Sam hadn't lied about some things. And ironically, the one kid who'd gotten hurt was himself. Knowing Sam like he did, his brother had probably seen a great opportunity when this punk had started goading and trying to freak him out. Dean's mouth tasted sour. He'd started the prank war. He always started the pranks.

"Scare who, Brad?" He knew the answer already. He needed to hear it.

"H-how do you know my name?" The kid blinked at him. Blinked some more when Dean glowered at him and waited for an answer. The words came in a rush after that. "The new kid. Winchester. Everyone in town knows the stories about this place. The ghosts, the pervo family that used to live here. New kids always fall for it. Please don't hurt me."

"I told you I'm not going to hurt you."

Though taking a mental step back, Dean could see why Brad was concerned. Dean had his hands balled into fists and he towered at least six inches over the kid. Maybe more, since Dean stood while Brad cowered on the ground. There was something rolled up next to him, white. Dean leaned, not displeased when Brad yelped. He picked up the white thing – a sheet, tattered. Two small holes cut into it. Eyeholes.

"This was your big plan," Dean stated flatly. "A sheet over your head?"

"I just wanted to make him pee his pants. He looks like a real wimp. You should see him," Brad said. "I'm sorry."

He was sorry. A sad, sorry bully who deserved a beat down, but not tonight. Dean didn't have time to deal with this punk now, might never have time. All he needed was for the kid to get gone.

"That new kid happens to be my brother." Dean glowered. "He ain't a wimp, and you will never even think about pulling this kind of shit on him again."

_If he's still alive._ The voice in Dean's head was cruel.

"Yeah. Okay," Brad said.

Dean was about to tell Brad to get the hell out of there when he heard faint voices whispering up the driveway. Of course this wasn't a one-man show.

"Friends?"

Brad nodded.

"Go. All of you, clear out. If you wanna have fun, egg the gym teacher's house or something. The new kid is off limits. You got me?"

"I got you," Brad squeaked, darting out of the bush as if his life depended on it.

The second Dean was alone, he sagged back against the porch. He'd just wasted too much time chasing the wrong kind of monster, the kind with a bigger bark than bite. The kind with baby teeth. Valuable minutes were gone, and Sam was that much further out of his grasp. He didn't know who he thought he was kidding. Not himself. He had no fucking idea what he was dealing with. The only less-than-stellar brainstorm he had at this point involved getting a shotgun to shoot at an invisible enemy. Really, Sam had been out of his reach since his executive decision to split up.

When it boiled down to it, Sam disappearing was entirely his fault. He'd been careless and stupid, Sam was paying for it and Dean _still_ didn't know what to do. It was time to fish or cut bait. Since he had only one plan, he was going to stick to it. Something was getting found tonight, and something was getting shot to death, especially if he found his brother hurt at all. _It wasn't Sam's blood staining the handle of his own switchblade. It wasn't._ He shook himself out of his hesitation, vowing to not get caught in that trap again. Dean eased his way out of the bush and trotted down the driveway. It was all about time, making up for what he'd lost and not losing any more.

He was so focused on the task at hand and the constant reaffirmations that Sam was okay, Dean didn't know anything had hit him until his knees met sharp gravel. Then the pain came.

&-&-&


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: It's about to get gross. Thanks for reading along - I wrote this in almost a week exactly, which is very fast for me, so any errors remaining after LdyAnne scoured it for me are all mine. _

**Bradley Said It's Haunted  
Chapter Two**

The heavy weight on top of him wouldn't relent, smothering steadily. Not for the first time that night, Sam was sure it was over for him. His limbs lost coordination and strength, and the will to fight waned as the air was pressed out of his lungs. Unnatural warmth spread through him, like his body knew it was dying and offered him what small comfort it could. He relaxed into it, stopped battling to lift his face and gulp in fresh oxygen. He grew lethargic, arms and legs like rubber. His brain went numb. The thing on top of him cooed in his ear, a tender and grotesque lullaby.

Sam faded, last thoughts turning to Dean and Dad and _sorrysorrydeadsorry_.

But suddenly the world shifted. No, he shifted but not by his own power, the strong arms and weight which had been slowly killing him changed tactic. He flopped loosely onto his back, the chain on his ankle rattling loudly, and part of him knew what was going on, but the bigger part of him was floating in a fog. What he did know was that he could breathe, had to. He sucked in a great lungful of the cool, musty air and immediately started coughing. His lungs burned and his muscles shook. His attacker became nursemaid, turning him on his side and patting his shoulder while he rode out the spasms.

He tried to shy away from the touch and signal it was unwanted, but he was too exhausted. He couldn't fight a kitten right now. Sam _was_ the kitten in this situation. By the time he got the coughing under control, the thing he could only see as a huge black expanse next to him was petting his shoulder. Revitalized just enough from the intake of air into his lungs, Sam slid across the bed until his back hit the cool wall, wresting himself away from the hand (or claw or whatever). The bed dipped and rustled as the thing followed his retreat, and while seconds ago he hadn't been able to catch enough breaths now his respiration sped up wildly. He knew either could make someone pass out. He didn't want to hyperventilate, but he couldn't stop.

_"The thing you can never do is panic. Keep your wits about you at all times. You hear me, Sammy?"_

His dad's voice was gruff and stern in his head, somehow disapproving even as he was imparting important advice. It and many other survival tidbits had been pounded into Sam's head since he was eight, things that a kid shouldn't have to know. Sam hated that Dad was right, and was as angry to hear the mental voice as he was comforted by it. It was always that way when it came to Dad. Love and hate and admiration and loathing all smushed together into something Sam didn't understand. He only knew it made him miserable all the time. He didn't get how it was possible to love someone so much and hate him too.

His misery over simply thinking about Dad saved him. Sam was so focused on his conflicted feelings about his father that he didn't obsess about what was happening to him. Momentarily, anyway. The hand or whatever reached for him again, cupping his jaw for a second and then ruffling his hair. Whatever it was, it was cold. Chained to the wall. Stroked behind the ears. God, Sam thought he was a pet. He really was a kitten to this thing, or a puppy. He took a shaky breath and held it to keep from shouting and kicking. The feel of the pillow was still on his face, like an imprint. He couldn't go through that again, couldn't suffocate, which left him to go through this now. He thought he might go crazy while he let this thing touch him.

He had to be like Dean. Dean never lost his cool. Dean always did what Dad said and Dad was right about this, so that was what Sam had to do. No panicking. He scrunched his eyes closed as the thing rested a hand on his shoulder, and used the other one to caress along his arms, chest and legs. It was almost like it was making sure he was unharmed. His composure was going to last only as long as that hand didn't roam into more sensitive areas. It didn't, his only lucky break since it had taken him. He stayed frozen in place, taking the opportunity to regain his strength. It had already been proven he couldn't fight what was double his size, not physically. He had to either wait for Dean, or find a way out of wherever he was on his own.

The dark shape, apparently satisfied Sam was okay, got up slowly and shambled away. Unable to see, Sam tried to track it by sound. It moved about ten feet away and stopped. There were a few thumps, then the sound of trickling water. It approached him again, moaning. He'd hurt it, he remembered. It seemed like hours ago. Maybe it was. He cringed when it rejoined him on the bed. Two hands invaded his personal space again, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

Sam freaked out, punching and kicking, trying to figure out where he'd knifed it earlier and target that spot. All the fighting in the world didn't do any good. It was determined, pinning him on his back and leaning its weight back on him. Thoughts of remaining calm flew right out of Sam's head. Everything flew out of his head except trying to get away. He squirmed, arm knocking into something unyielding. Wetness on his hip, seeping through his jeans. He gasped in horror. He didn't want to know what that was.

"Shhhh," it said, pulling him upright and close. "It's okay."

"Please," Sam said. He whimpered, horrified by his own weakness. "No. Don't."

"I don't want to hurt you," it said as the grip on his arms hurt him. "You bleed. You're dirty."

There was soft dampness on Sam's face, gentle dabs against his sore chin.

"Shhh, now."

Sam stopped fighting again, though not through any conscious decision. He turned his face away from the bizarre attempt to administer aid. He was confused by it, and by the shushing. It was like the ing wanted to mother him. He didn't care. He'd rather bleed. He'd rather make _it_ bleed some more. It had _taken him_ and chained him to a wall in a dungeon. It wasn't good, it was evil, and he wasn't going to fall for its tricks.

The creature sighed, sour breath gusting against Sam's face. It released him, laying him gently on the reeking bed. Shuffling off, it paced the room and muttered under its breath. A brief sliver of light sliced into the room, and then everything went dark again.

_Door_, Sam thought. A way out. He gave it a minute before he started breathing normally again, convinced it was going to be gone for a while. He sat up, shaking again. He felt the wet spot next to him, scooting away from it. He rubbed at his chin, feeling a small gash that oozed yet. It was nothing. The faint burn in his lungs was something to be worried about, though. Near suffocation and being trapped in a damp and cold place couldn't be good. He had to get away.

Sam slid off the bed and took a step, hands out blindly. Without any light, he had to rely on his other senses. He didn't think the creature would have left him able to reach anything useful, but he had to try. It took a minute to realize he couldn't feel anything but the wall standing. He got down on all fours, crawling the scant distance the chain allowed and stretching as far as he could beyond that with his arms. His hands scrabbled for anything, but he didn't expect much. At the head of the bed and without stretching, he encountered something cold and hard. He ran his fingers along it, yanking them back when he realized it was a toilet. Judging from the dirtiness of the bed, Sam didn't want to think what he'd just touched. He sat back on his heels and wiped his hands compulsively down the front of his jeans.

The tank. The toilet tank would have something he could use. Steeling himself, Sam returned to the task, reaching for the lid. There wasn't one. All there was was a pipe and a flusher. It was an industrial-type crapper like in school, not a home one. He thought maybe if he could pull the heavy pipe free from the wall, maybe he could use it to smash the pin out, or maybe loosen the metal plate to which his chain was fixed. He tugged and yanked and tried to loosen the bolts, but nothing worked.

"Fucking A," Sam said, wiping his hands again.

He couldn't let it get him down. Dean wouldn't give up. Sam got back on his hands and knees, heading toward the foot of the bed now. Once again, he struck something. More than one something. He frowned, probing at the objects cautiously and pretending he wasn't skeeved out by filth and germs. Whatever they were, some of them were firm and some spongy and slippery. He picked up one of the hard ones, feeling along the length of it to a knob. It was a little over a foot long, and seemed sturdy. If nothing else, he could use it as a club for when the creature came back. He braced his hand on the ground and prepared to stand.

His fingers contacted something that made his hair stand on end – another hand. A cold, squishy, human, _dead_ hand. One of its fingernails came loose. The smell hit him next, that odor which permeated his prison under all other things. Death. Sam yelped, flinging the club (bone, human bone) away as if it were on fire. He scrambled to his feet. Oh shit. Rotting flesh slimed his fingers. Sam scuttled back, vomit rising in his throat. He didn't try to stop it, aiming at first for the toilet but quickly giving up, falling back onto his knees and puking until he was sure his guts would come right out.

He kept dry heaving long after his stomach was empty, prompted mostly by the residue of decaying tissue on his hands. Sam didn't think it was ever going to wash off. There wasn't soap in the world strong enough. He squeezed his eyes shut, rested his forehead on the wood bed frame, and simply tried to forget about what just happened. Like that would happen. He coughed, a faint rattle in his chest. He was tired, and with this bout of sickness, getting weaker by the minute.

"Dean, I really need you to find me now," Sam murmured. "Please, please find me."

Because Sam knew now without a doubt he was dead otherwise. He wasn't willing to ponder why the thing was treating him nice, like a pet to coddle, if he was going to end up a pile of bones in the corner anyway. It was going to kill him, if not today then tomorrow or a month from now. He shuddered at the thought of being stuck here for that long. Dean wouldn't let that happen. Dad wouldn't let that happen. He resisted the impulse to scream for help, only because he didn't know where his captor was, it could be right outside, and the last time he'd tried that it had almost killed him.

The draftiness of the floor seeped into his bones. Sam climbed onto the bed, sitting just on the edge. He wasn't sure what to do, his mind constantly revisiting the pile of bones. He was glad now that he couldn't see anything. Knowing they were there was bad enough. Defeated weariness flowed through him, but he didn't want to sleep. He couldn't let himself do that. The thing could come back any second, and he didn't want to be off guard. For a millisecond, he thought about getting over his revulsion and taking up the big bone. A weapon was a weapon. Both Dean and Dad would do it. Sam slumped against the wall, drew his knees up and rested his forehead on them. He couldn't. Maybe Dean was right every time he teased him for being a pansy.

Sam didn't want to be the kind of person who was able to pick up a human bone without batting an eyelash. He didn't want any of this. He didn't have a choice.

He coughed again, closing his eyes just to rest for a second. They burned from throwing up, watered because he was a big baby and wanted to go home, even though home was a crappy extended stay motel. Sam wondered if Dean was freaking out, if he was getting anywhere near to figuring out what happened. He heard a faint scraping noise from outside. Lifting his head, he tilted his head and listened. It was getting closer. He moved to the edge of the bed, thinking again about grabbing for a gory weapon.

Before he could talk himself into it, intense light filled the room. Sam squinted, raising his arms to block some of it out. In a large rectangle of brightness across the way stood a massive person. He couldn't see any features, male or female, only a silhouette. It entered the room, the scraping sound coming from its right side. He didn't know what it was, watched numbly as the person tossed its burden at him.

"Hey," Sam said, grunting as he was hit by something large.

The person backed out, hunched over slightly, shutting the door and plunging the room back into darkness.

Sam's eyes hadn't had time to adjust, and the whole event left him kind of dizzy and confused. He pushed at the thing half on his lap, half on the bed. Almost instantly, he knew what it was. Who it was. A thin leather band wrapped around his fingers, a recognizable shape hanging from it. Hair with too much gel in it.

"Dean," he whispered. "Oh no."

Dean didn't move when Sam shook him. Sam shook him harder, gave up on it when the second attempt did nothing. Heart beating fast, he rose and tugged at his much-larger brother, pulling Dean all the way onto the bed and laying him out on his back. Sam was aware he was doing exactly as the monster (it was just a _person_) had done with him as he patted Dean down, looking for injuries he hoped were not there. No blood, that was good. He rubbed his knuckles on Dean's sternum, happy when his brother groaned. Sam ran his death-slimed fingers through Dean's hair, finding a large bump behind his left ear.

"Dean, you have to wake up," Sam said.

"Mmmph," Dean said.

Oh God, they were both going to die. Sam really needed for his brother to wake up now and tell him everything was going to be okay. He slapped Dean's cheeks gently, almost smiling when he considered if he'd done that under normal circumstances Dean would make him pay for it.

"Dean, wake up _now_," Sam ordered, wishing his voice were deeper and that he didn't sound so damn scared.

"Mmm," Dean said again. He shifted, arms jerking a little. "What?"

"Dean." Sam shook his brother's shoulder harder, but tried not to jostle him too much. "You awake?"

"Sam? Is that you? I can't see." Dean raised his shoulders off the bed, then sagged back.

"It's dark. There aren't any lights."

"Hey, it _is_ you. Looks like I found you."

Sam wanted to be reassured by that the way Dean always reassured him, but he wasn't. Especially when Dean passed out.

&-&-&

There were mosquitoes buzzing in both his ears. Annoyed, Dean shook his head to get rid of them. It was a mistake. His whole skull and its insides seemed to turn into a ball of fire and ice and pain. He clutched at his temples with both hands and groaned. He wanted the number of the truck that plowed him over. He didn't even remember seeing headlights.

"Dean?"

Sam. Sammy. Dean still didn't remember the truck, but he remembered why he'd been standing in the middle of the proverbial road. He opened his eyes, expecting to see his little brother's face real close by. Instead, he saw nothing. It made his heart beat faster, which in turn made the pain in his head even worse. He bit back a moan. This wasn't good. This was very not good.

"Sammy, where are we?" Dean said. "Why can't I see?"

"I don't know where we are," Sam said in a quiet, shaky monotone. He gave a wet cough. "I don't think we could be very far from the house, though. There aren't any lights in here. You might start seeing shadows and dark shapes soon. Cracks around the door."

"Oh."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to get his brain up to speed. He figured he had a concussion, which was a problem but not the end of the world. He kind of wanted to puke. He gave a moment to quelling that urge. Wasn't easy, because wherever here was, it stank like dead things. He eased himself up, cautiously easing himself so he sat with his back to the wall. Oh damn it, if he felt this awful, he could only imagine how Sam was. The dark was kind to his aching head, but he wanted lights to see his brother with his own eyes.

"You okay, Sammy?"

"I'm all right."

Same subdued tone, and Dean had called Sam Sammy twice in a row without rebuke. Something was up. He might be addled beyond belief, but Dean knew for a fact when his brother was experiencing something bad. Sam was a terrible liar, one of those skill sets Dad wanted him to work on. They couldn't roll into a town if Sam was going to give them away to the wrong person. Someday Dean would have to show him the ropes, get him up to Winchester speed with the lying. Some day, maybe little Sammy would out-lie them all.

Considering the circumstances, though, Dean was willing to let it slide. He knew Sam would tell him if there was something seriously wrong. Something more serious than getting abducted and tossed into a dark prison cell, that was. At the moment, all he could think about their situation was that they were screwed. Closing his eyes, he let his head fall to the side and rest against the wall. The pressure against the lump behind his ear hurt, but the coolness soothed the throbbing just long enough for him to remember the blood covering the cellar door's handle. He pulled away from the wall.

"I found blood. Be straight with me, kid – are you hurt?"

He hadn't realized Sam wasn't on the bed with him until he heard a metallic scraping sound and felt the rank mattress dip a little. Sam fumbled a bit, hands bumping into Dean's knee and shoulder while he situated himself right next to him. Dean could feel the way the kid trembled.

"It wasn't my blood."

"Way to go, Sam," Dean said, knowing full well his brother wouldn't exactly appreciate the praise. Sam never seemed excited to hunt.

"Didn't help much. I … I tried to fight it, Dean, I really did, but it was so much bigger than me. No matter what I did, I couldn't, I couldn't…"

Sam shivered against him, huddling himself tighter. Dean didn't understand a whole lot at the moment, but he got that. He understood Sam needed a second to pull it together. He sat there without saying anything, trying not to think about his scrawny brother trying to fight something twice his size. Maybe bigger. There was only so much a person could do when outweighed like that, despite all the training they had.

"I'm here now," Dean said at last. "It'll be two against one. Did you see it at all?"

Sam hesitated.

"No, but it talked to me some. It touch … Dean, I think it's just a _person_," Sam said. "A really strong person."

Dean stiffened. He didn't like the way Sam had said really strong or the way he kept trailing off just when it sounded like important stuff was going to come out. His headache and the fact he was taken down easily was proof of how strong the thing was. Maybe now wasn't the time to make Sam relive his ordeal in detail, but Dean would get it out of him eventually.

After he killed the son of a bitch that had taken his brother and made him so scared he could barely talk straight. So help him, if that thing had laid one pervy hand on his brother, it was beyond dead.

"Anything else? Like what this fine fellow wants with us?"

Sam emitted a near hysterical laugh.

Oh, that was not good. Sam was many things. Irritating, whiny, mopey and too damned smart for his own good, but one thing Sam wasn't was one to freak out at the drop of a hat. He didn't panic. He wasn't Mr. Stoic like Dad, but he kept a rein on his emotions, for the most part. That he was still shaken after a few minutes was a bad sign.

"Sam, spit it out."

"I think we're either pets or..."

Sam squirmed next to him, and there was a corresponding clank and rattle. Dean frowned. That sound was familiar, not in a good way. Rather than trying to get it out of Sam, Dean gingerly moved, reaching his left hand out to grab Sam's arms one at a time. Finding nothing, he moved to the legs. His frown deepened when his fingers hit hard, sturdy metal. He traced it, feeling it circle Sam's ankle, found the thick chain and followed it to a secure plate.

"Sam, are you shackled to the fucking wall?"

"Yeah," Sam said miserably. "I can't get it off."

Dean knew he had probably tried everything. He gave Sam's ankle a pat. It wasn't anything like the assurance Sam needed, or he needed himself.

"I think we're pets or worse, Dean. Th-there are bones and b-bodies over there. People die in here. I think a lot of them. We might be dinner."

The smell. The horrible, now-he-recognized-it stench of decay that he had noticed immediately now became even more apparent. Dean understood why Sam was so freaked out, though somehow suspected this was still only part of it. He and Sam had been separated for a short while, but that time had apparently been packed full of terrible, unspeakable things for Sam. Oh yeah, something was dying tonight. There was no _just_ about this person. It wasn't human like they were; it was evil like any supernatural thing. Maybe even more evil.

"I'm nobody's dinner," Dean announced, putting as much bravado behind it as he could. "Neither are you. We're getting out of here. Maybe you're chained, but I'm not. Thing probably thought I was going to stay unconscious longer. I'll get us out of this, Sam."

"I know you will." No hesitation in that response. Sam straightened his shoulders, so that he pressed into Dean. He still trembled slightly, but it was from cold, not fear. "I looked for something to loosen the pin, but I couldn't get very far from the bed. Maybe you can find something where I couldn't reach."

Forgetting Sam couldn't see him, he nodded. His head protested, and for a moment it felt as though a spike were being driven through his skull. Dean clenched his jaw, trying not to let his pain be obvious. The last thing Sam needed was to worry about him. His brother's clammy fingers grabbing at his wrist told him no amount of faking it was going to work. Sam knew him pretty well, which was disconcerting and yet encouraging.

"It's just a headache," Dean said. "No big deal."

Yeah, except he knew if there were lights in their prison he would be seeing two of everything. Another reason it was better to be in the dark, he decided. As if the pile of bones and flesh Sam had apparently had an up close and personal encounter with wasn't reason enough. He didn't need to know one single thing more about who had them.

"Right," Sam said.

Dean figured they didn't have much time. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out, thought it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. Sam hadn't said it in so many words, but from the way he spoke, it made Dean believe he'd spent one-on-one time with their captor. His mind conjured up many unpleasant possibilities on what had gone down. He frowned. In any case, it didn't seem likely the guy was going to leave them alone for long. He had to get past the brutal, sharp pains in his head and the corresponding nausea, for both his and Sam's sakes.

"The door's straight across from the bed. I think there might be a sink next to it." Sam stood, taking Dean's left arm and pointing with it to help give an idea of direction. "There's a toilet that way. I thought I could use something from it, but I couldn't get the pipe free. The bodies are over there. And I puked somewhere really close to the bed."

Gross. Understandable, but gross.

"Okay."

Most of that information was pretty helpful. For as unenthusiastic as he was about hunting in general, Sam was resourceful and had an eye for details. Even in the dark. Dean bumped his brother gently on the shoulder before setting off in the direction of the toilet. He found the wall, running his right hand along it to keep himself steady. He'd take a loop around the room and see what his hands could find. He moved carefully, but quickly, knowing every second could count. He expected the door to burst open any second. He didn't like leaving Sam undefended.

The room seemed mostly empty. He didn't run into anything, and all his fingers picked up was wetness and dirt along the first two walls. Partially through the third, when he thought he was across the room from Sam, Dean finally found something. Running his hands along it, he guessed it was a small table, about waist high. There were no drawers or cupboards. He might be able to bust off the legs, but they wouldn't do jack to help get Sammy free. On top of the table there was a basin of water. His hands shook in his haste, knocking it over onto the floor.

"Found the sink," he muttered over to Sam.

That meant he was near the door. Dean got moving again, sliding his hands along uneven stonework until they contacted a wood frame and a flat expanse. It was sturdy. There was no handle, though it seemed there used to be. A flat metal panel was there instead. He didn't expect an easy way out, but it still sucked. Thin draughts of air came in through the small spaces between frame and door, but not much. Pressing his ear against the door, he listened for movement outside. He heard faint thumping sounds, and a voice too muffled to make out. His heart beat faster. If he could hear them, they could hear him and Sam.

"Door's one way."

Sam remained silent, but his chain rattled a little. Dean took a deep breath, stepped away from the door. It was only a matter of a few steps before he got to the bones that unnerved Sam. He didn't blame the kid. It took a sick freak to not even bother burying the remains. As he was thinking about it, his foot contacted something that didn't yield for a moment, then snapped and part of it rolled away.

"Oh God," Sam said. He sounded ill. "That was a head, wasn't it?"

"Probably," Dean said, not sounding like the picture of health himself. Human skull soccer was not an approved extracurricular activity. "Don't think about it."

Sam choked out a whimper.

Sam hadn't been wrong. It _was_ a pile. Dean took his own advice. He didn't want to think of how many people had been chained up in here, didn't have any hope at all that any had gotten out alive. He and Sam were going to break that trend. He let go of the wall, using his right foot to gauge where there were bones and bodies, shuffling around back toward Sam. His journey had given them squat to work with, but that didn't have to mean rolling over and giving up. He bumped into his brother, and his kneecap hit the edge of the bed frame.

He sank down on it, resting his elbows on his knees. Leaning, he allowed himself a second to cradle his aching head. The journey around the room had accomplished nothing but loss of time they needed. Beside him, Sam sniffled and coughed. Dean frowned. He had to think. If his head would stop hurting for one minute, he would think of somethi … something obvious.

"Damn it," he said.

"Dean?"

Jamming his hands into his coat pockets, Dean fished around in the rock salt until he claimed his prize. It should have been the first thing he thought of when he found that shackle around Sam's ankle. He pulled out the switchblade, hand shaking slightly. He crouched, feeling around until he found his brother's foot. He flicked the blade open and set to work.

"The knife. I had this the whole time. I'm an _idiot_."

"You got your head bashed in, Dean. You're not an idiot," Sam said softly. "The guy who has us is dumb for not checking for a weapon. Besides, you thought of it eventually anyway."

Dean paused, turning to glance at Sam even though he couldn't see anything more than indistinct shapes. Dad would probably have agreed with his self-assessment with no lenience given for a head injury. He didn't deserve Sam's reassurance, but he had to admit it made him feel better. For all of five seconds. What a sorry sack he was, wasting time feeling good. He pursed his lips and returned his concentration to the shackle's pin. Doing it blind wasn't that challenging, except he nicked his fingers a couple times. The scratches were a small price to pay for the success of the pin falling with a resounding clatter.

"Yes," Dean hissed.

Sam's hands butted his out of the way, releasing the shackle as if it had been causing him pain. Dean doubted there was any _physical_ injury associated with the manacle. He dodged out of the way when Sam swung his legs rapidly.

"Sorry," Sam whispered.

"It's okay. I get it." He'd want to move freely too, if he'd been restricted like that. "We gotta be ready when he comes back in. There's a table by the door. I can bust its legs off to use as weapons."

"No. That'll make noise. He'll hear it." Sam took a step from him. "You've got the knife. We can … we can use some of t-the bones. I was gonna before."

Ew. Smart, but ew.

"Yeah, a femur might make a good bat," Dean said. "We stand on either side of the door and jump him when he comes in."

"Okay."

Dean moved toward the bones, not looking forward to feeling around for a suitable weapon. The closer he got, the worse it smelled. His stomach roiled from the odor, and along with the barely contained nausea from the head injury he thought for sure he was going to toss his cookies.

"Oh, this is gonna be disgusting."

"Yes, it is," Sam told him, voice hollow and knowing.

His foot hit bone, so he crouched and extended his hands. Dean forced himself to stay on task when the first thing he touched was malleable and slick, but he couldn't stop the gagging. He heard Sam retch too. He also heard something else. He stopped searching, fumbling instead for Sam. The thumps he had heard earlier from outside were getting louder, closer. It was now or never.

"If you see an opening, Sammy, you run," Dean ordered, ignoring the revulsion to grab for a suitable weapon and getting lucky. He handed it to his brother and searched for another. "Run as fast as you can."

"Dean, I changed my mind," Sam said with resolve. "If you think I'm leaving you here, you are a huge idiot."

&-&-&

Sam's heart felt like it was in his throat. He'd known it was only a matter of time before the guy came back, and he felt better now that Dean was here and his leg was free. But still, there was this intense, almost paralyzing fear that wanted to take over his whole body. Thinking about how he'd been treated before, tenderly even as he was being smothered, didn't help; it still confused him. He grasped the femur with both hands, wildly hoping whomever it belonged to hadn't had bone cancer or osteoporosis or something. It was an insane thing to think.

"You aim low, Sam, and I'll aim high," Dean said, displeasure at Sam's refusal to run clear in his tone.

Dean wouldn't just aim high. He'd aim for the jugular with the switchblade. As much as part of him wanted that, Sam couldn't keep from thinking how this was a human being they were about to ambush.

"It's a person," he whispered.

"Yeah, I know. That's a technicality."

"When we can, we _both_ run."

There wasn't time for a debate. Sam heard the door handle grate, a soft metal-on-metal clicking that served as a head's up. He shivered and bit back a cough, his arms and legs trembling. It was just his luck, getting sick so fast. He knew if Dean hadn't been put in here with him he probably wouldn't have made a great pet for very long. Didn't matter. He didn't know why he was thinking about all this, when he should be thinking about saving himself and Dean.

The room flooded with light, and thinking became something Sam couldn't afford to do. He couldn't see very well, but he swung with all his might at the enormous, hairy person towering in the doorway. He aimed low because that was where he reached on the guy, arms jolting from the strength of the hit on a wide thigh. Something cuffed him on the side of the head, hard enough for his vision to gray but not go out. He grunted.

It was like he was in a tornado. Too much going on all at once. Sam didn't know which way was up. He only knew down was where his feet were. Eyes tearing from the light, he blinked them away and started to be able to see. Dean was there, knife and bone in both hands. He watched as the guy – Sam couldn't make out its appearance, it was still a dark mass – flung his brother aside like he weighed ten pounds. There was no tenderness in this monster; that had all been part of its sick game. He heard Dean moan, and that did it.

"No," Sam shouted.

Sam swung and swung, landing only one hit in three. Dean was next to him again, and they were getting the upper hand much easier than he'd thought possible. The guy went down on his knees, lashing out. The air whooshed out of Sam's lungs, and only then did he realize he'd taken a strong hit and was sprawled on his back. He tried to suck in air and couldn't, flopping about. His head tipped to the side. A partially decayed face stared back at him. Its eyes were cloudy, features soft and feminine. Brown, dull hair. Sam convulsed, unable to breathe or puke and needing to do both so bad.

"Sammy," he heard Dean say angrily.

His lungs unlocked at last, allowing him to wheeze. Sam clutched at his chest, gasping and gagging. Twice tonight he'd felt himself suffocating. It sucked. Buzzing in his ears. He coughed and scrambled to his feet. He'd lost his weapon somewhere, couldn't get another. Not with that woman there, looking at him. Dean went flying again, back hitting the corner of the table. He crumpled to his side and lay there, stunned. Sam lurched forward, not fast enough. The guy grabbed Dean and picked him up with one hand wrapped around his throat.

"Run, Sam," Dean choked out.

Sam did run. He ran straight for the behemoth that had his brother, jumping on his back. He was too weak and he knew it. On a good day he would have been useless. Through the mass of smelly hair, Sam saw Dean's face. He hooked an arm around the guy's throat, yanked at his hair with one hand. The monster pretending to be human howled, reaching back for Sam. It gave Dean a chance to use the knife.

The guy fell to his knees, letting go of Dean, whose gasps came harsh and fast. He tipped forward, dumping Sam off his back. He held its stomach, but didn't go down all the way.

Sam knew he … _it_ was only temporarily stunned. He also knew neither he or Dean had the power to fight anymore. They had to go while they could. Get out, get help.

"Run, Sam," Dean said again, as if reading his mind.

"I will if you will," Sam said shakily, holding out a hand.

Dean took the help to his feet, where he wavered for a second. Actually, Sam wasn't sure they weren't in the middle of a bizarre Midwestern earthquake, because he wasn't steady himself. They ran a wobbly, crooked path out of their prison. Barely sparing a glance around, Sam still noted the filth of the outer room. The walls out here were stone. There were no windows. Handmade, crude furniture. A baby's crib. Didn't care. Door.

They were almost there when he heard it, a low crooning. Sam nearly tripped Dean up when he froze in fear. He knew that sound. Dean towed him forward, but he turned and looked for the source of the sound. _Two of them, Dean_, he said, only he didn't. He couldn't speak for the lump in his throat. It was too late to try again. Dean pulled him toward the door, but something stronger pulled him the other direction.

"Dean," he said.

"Shhh," the thing said in his ear. "Stay here."

Sam got over his fear. Dean was with him. His brother wouldn't let this thing have him. He thrashed, kicking once before he was hugged too close to move, trapped in place. Panting, he looked for Dean and let out a pathetic cry. It was going to squeeze him to death. Again.

"Hands off," Dean said, drawing a fist back.

Suddenly Sam was on his knees and he could breathe again. He laughed, couldn't seem to stop. He shook, stared up at Dean shaking his hand as if it hurt and looking back at him with a glazed and unsettled expression on his face. Sam turned to look at what had grabbed him, a slightly smaller version of the thing that was bound to recover any second and come for them. Female. She was laid out, unconscious. There was a large, brownish stain on her torso from where he'd stabbed her. Good.

"Sam, we have got to go." Dean got him to his feet. "Come on."

They ran, the door leading up a rough set of stone steps until they were above ground and in the woods somewhere. Sam looked back once, trying to get his bearings, but Dean moved relentlessly forward. There was a light somewhere near, the sky a hazy orange to the east. Morning. It had only been hours, felt like days. Forever. He and Dean moved faster than either of them should have been able to, bursting out of the cluster of trees into a clearing. They couldn't have been more than a hundred feet from the Peabody house. So close, and no one in town seemed to know what monsters were right next door.

"Bradley said it's haunted," Dean gasped.

"Fuck Brad Hoffstedler," Sam said. "I hate that kid."

Dean laughed.

Behind them, something crashed through the trees. Without speaking, they picked up their pace again. Sam had a feeling if they could make it off the property and into the open, they'd be okay. Alive, anyway. His lungs burned and ached and he knew the only reason he was still on his feet was adrenaline. He no longer heard anything chasing them, but when he'd first been taken he hadn't heard a thing. It, both things, could be standing next to them now. He turned his head as they hustled to the end of the driveway and into civilization.

There was nothing on the road behind them. Sam's legs nearly buckled with relief. He couldn't let weariness win yet. They had to make it back home first. He peered at Dean, who looked terrible and wonderful. He'd never tell Dean that. Dean didn't want to hear that, but Sam couldn't help it. He had almost died tonight and his brother saved him, like Sam knew he would. He trotted next to Dean, semi-aware they were weaving all over the place, semi-aware of everything. He was foggy again, so tired. Just move, keep moving. Don't think.

He blinked bewilderedly when Dean stopped him, taking a minute or two to see they were at the hotel. Sam felt in his pockets. He didn't remember if he had the key or if Dean did. Either way, the door opened and he went inside, falling onto a bed more than sitting. Dean patted him down, looking for injuries. Too tired to argue, Sam let him. He coughed every time he breathed too deeply.

"You okay, Sam?" Dean asked worriedly.

"Tired. I'm just tired. What about you?"

"Tired too." Dean wandered off.

Sam heard Dean puking in the bathroom. He walked over, grabbing a washcloth and running cold water on it. He knew Dean would tell him to bug off, but he folded and pressed the cloth on the back of his brother's neck anyway. Dean only reached up and took it from him, still hunched over the toilet but not throwing up anymore.

"You should go to the hospital," Sam said, because someone had to be the voice of reason.

"Like hell. Dad's already gonna kill us for letting those things live."

"We didn't let them live." The protest was instantaneous and Sam wasn't sure why. "We saved ourselves. A regular dad would be happy about that."

"Dad's not a regular dad."

Sam knew that. Oh, he knew it. He went back to the bed and sat, deciding whether or not to take off his shoes. Not. He lay down and closed his eyes, slipping into half-sleep. Visions of that dead woman danced in his head. The smell of rot was still in his nose. His lungs hurt as if they were starved of oxygen.

Dean flushed the toilet and followed him. He sat on the bed next to Sam. The washcloth, now warm, swiped at Sam's chin.

"You shouldn't need stitches." Dean put a hand on Sam's forehead. "I think you've got a fever."

"Good," he murmured. "And I think I caught a cold."

Dean muttered something about pneumonia and something else about taking the shotgun out there and ending those people.

"Police," Sam said.

"Yeah, the human monsters get police treatment. Time to make an anonymous tip," Dean said. "I don't get people."

Sam dimly heard Dean pick up the phone and call in a report of something awful at the Peabody place and explain it wasn't a prank, to look in the grove to the south of the house. It took a long time to convince the person on the other end of the line to send a car or three out there, and even in his semiconscious state Sam couldn't blame them. No one expected a haunted house to actually possess evil. No one believed in spooks and monsters until they saw them for themselves. He could hear the thing cooing in his ear as if it were happening that second. He turned on his side, curling into a ball.

"Stop thinking about it, Sam, or you'll never sleep," Dean mumbled, off the phone now.

It was apparently that easy, because the next thing Sam knew the room was dark again. He groaned and turned onto his back, aches that he hadn't felt yesterday now there big time. His lungs felt tight, uncomfortable. He looked at the clock. It was five till five. PM. He squinted at the other bed, seeing Dean there and relaxing … until he remembered the blow his brother had taken. Imagining intercranial bleeding and swelling and comas and subdural hematomas, Sam launched himself off the bed, his own aches and pains forgotten. He grabbed Dean's shoulder and shook it.

"Dean, get up. Dean," he said.

"Mm, go away," Dean groaned. "Leave me alone."

"Not until you wake up."

"Fine." Dean opened his eyes, glaring at him. "What time's it?"

"Five. We slept all day."

Sam clicked on the lamp. His stomach growled. The diet would start tomorrow. He turned on the TV, habit more than any real desire to watch. Plus, it would distract Dean so he could grab the first shower. They stank like dirt and death. The tones of a news broadcast filled the room, and two serious and overly-made up people appeared on the screen.

_"Up first tonight – horror in a small town. Earlier today, the police department in Fairmont, located near the Iowa border, received an anonymous call regarding a local legend. Rumors of ghosts at an old farm home near the edge of town were common for this community, but no one could have ever anticipated what police uncovered when investigating what they thought was a simple Halloween prank call."_

Sam swallowed. He didn't need to hear the rest. He knew what was out there. He fumbled with the remote, trying to turn it off. Dean took it from him and turned up the volume instead. All Sam could see was the pile of bones and flesh as the anchorwoman tossed the story to an on-site reporter. He closed his eyes.

_"Thank you, Leah,"_ a grim, deep-voiced man said. _"I'm standing right now outside what is locally known as the Peabody House, where this morning the remains of at least thirty people were found in an underground structure believed to have been at one time an icehouse now converted into some kind of dwelling. The remains were reportedly in various states of decay and included children. No one alive was found, but I've been told based on evidence collected police believe at least two people, possibly a family, lived in the dwelling and were likely responsible for the murders."_

_"Ron, do we know yet who the victims might be? In a town the size of Fairmont, surely someone would notice that many people were missing,"_ Leah asked.

_"Police are not willing to speculate at this time, though there are already rumors that Peabody House was a frequent stop for transients. It could very well be the victims sought a place for shelter, and paid for it with their lives."_

_"This is truly terrible,"_ Leah said with practiced gravity.

At that, Dean did turn off the TV.

"Shit," Dean said.

"They got away," Sam whispered. He looked at Dean, fighting the urge to cry. "They got away."

Sam swore the tightness in his chest wasn't from illness, but from the monster hugging him close and never letting go.


End file.
